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The Stradivari Mystique

My first introduction to Stradivari violins came in the form of a catchy little tune I learned for the spring chorus concert in fifth grade. “Owning a Stradivarius is actually quite precarious,” we sang, pantomiming bow strokes. Then, placing a hand on one hip and shaking a finger at the audience, we continued, “Let me tell you, honey, they cost a lot of money, but as violins go they’re the very very best.”

They do cost a lot of money—a Stradivari violin called “The Hammer” sold for $3,544,000 by Christie’s in 2006 holds the record for the most expensive instrument ever purchased at a public auction—but just what is it that makes Stradivari violins, in the words of the children’s song, “the very very best?”

Stewart Pollens’s new book, “Stradivari,” gets at that question through a meticulously detailed examination of the legendary Antonio Stradivari’s methods—from what kind of wood he used to make violin tops (spruce) to how he positioned f-holes (using templates and tracing paper patterns). On one page I found a mathematical formula for string tension that triggered terrifying flashbacks from high-school physics class; on another, an eighteenth-century recipe for varnish that, with ingredients like mastic, dragon’s blood, saffron, and rectified spirits, sounded more like a witch’s brew than something to put on an instrument.

Along with all the figures, diagrams, and enigmatic formulas, Pollens also offers a few juicy details from what sounds like an exciting life: who knew, for example, that Stradivari married his first wife, Francesca, just three years after her brother had murdered her first husband?

Pollens was the longtime Conservator of Musical Instruments at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and I recently made a trip to the museum’s newly reopened André Mertens Galleries for Musical Instruments to get a glimpse of some of the treasured instruments described in his book. After lingering in front of a collection of double reed instruments, fascinated as only a bassoonist could be by innovations in fingering systems and reed-making techniques, I made a beeline for the Stradivari violins.

Carefully stowed in climate-controlled cases under the dim museum light, the Stradivari violins looked, to my untrained eye, pretty much like any other violins. If an expert like Pollens had accompanied me and pointed out the wonders of their construction, or if a virtuoso violinist like Joshua Bell had suddenly appeared to draw out their sweet tones, maybe I too would have caught the Stradivari fever. But for now, their allure remains mysterious.

Perhaps my museum companion, a violinist, said it best: “Stradivari violins are probably a lot more fun to play than they are to look at.” I doubt that Pollens—or Stradivari—would disagree.